


Get Along, Little Poet

by Temmy_Silver



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Whump (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Cowboy AU, Crowley Whump (Good Omens), F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Hastur's a jerk, Human AU, Implied Crowley/Freddie Mercury, The Bentley's a Horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22545430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temmy_Silver/pseuds/Temmy_Silver
Summary: Poet Azra Fell moves to the dusty town of Soho in search of a new life, and finds it in the local barmaid, Crowley. Unfortunately, Sheriff Hastur already has his grimy hooks in her. Can Azra win Crowley over and keep the possessive Hastur at bay?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley/Hastur (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 46
Collections: Can't no preacher man save my soul





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey I'm finally back with another Good Omens fic! I love the cowboy au and I love female Crowley and for some reason I got ex-boyfriend vibes off Crowley and Hastur while watching the show, so I wrote this ridiculous thing. Happy reading!

Azra Fell moved into the dusty town of Soho on a Thursday evening. It wasn’t the prettiest place, but to him, it was wonderful. He would be able to start a whole new life here. When he brought all of his boxes and furniture into the two-room shack he had bought, he spent what little precious energy he had getting changed into his pajamas, then promptly fell asleep.

The next day he woke up in a blurry haze, feeling a bit too comfortable. He opened up the pocket watch he’d set on his bedside table and squinted at it. It was a little past noon, and Azra suddenly found himself terribly hungry. He got dressed, grabbed his sack of coins, put on his hat, and went outside to peruse the town for some place to eat.

Eventually he came across an establishment called the Eden Saloon. It had a nicer paint job than the other hastily-built homes and businesses in the town, and there were even lovely arrangements of flowers in the windows.

However, Azra was wary of approaching because of a lone horse standing outside of the place. It was a massive thing with a black coat and shining eyes that seemed to stare straight through Azra, but it didn’t bother him as he made his way to the entrance and Azra didn’t bother it.

The Eden Saloon was as well-kept of a business on the inside as it was on the outside. People were eating and drinking at nice tables and there was a fancy-looking piano in the corner. For all its lovely decor, Azra’s attention was pulled to the barmaid.

She was a tall, lean woman with long, red hair set in perfect ringlets that bounced as she walked. Her outfit was completely black, as black as the horse outside, but the attire portrayed style rather than sadness. She seemed to be scolding a potted herb of some sort, stopping when Azra took a seat at the bar.

“What can I get for you?” she asked him with a voice like dark honey.

“Just a water for now, and a quail patty, please,” he said. She turned to get a glass. “Oh, just one more thing, my dear.” She looked back to him.

“Your name would be lovely.”

The barmaid blinked, then gave him a gorgeous half-smile. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked as she ran the tap for his water.

“I moved in last night. Overslept a bit, I’m afraid,” he said sheepishly. “My name is Azra. Azra Fell.”

“So _you’re_ the shack man. Word was getting around that that old thing had been sold, but no one ever said to whom.” She handed him his glass, still smiling. “Welcome to Soho, Mr. Fell. I’m Annabelle J. Crowley.”

He smiled back at her and said, “Thank you, Miss Crowley.”

She made him his patty and the two got to chatting. “Where do you come from?” she asked.

Azra thought of a “home” with four overbearing cousins. “North,” he answered simply.

Her eyes flitted to him as she filled up a beer for another patron. “I see.” She handed the other man his drink and went back to Azra. “What brings you to Soho?”

“Ah!” Azra said, brightening up. “I’m a poet, you see, and I’ve struck a deal with Soho Publishing. Within three months, I’m to have a book of poetry ready for them.”

“How many poems?”

“200. All new.”

Miss Crowley’s eyebrows rose. “200 poems in three months? You’re either a fast worker or a shit poet.”

Azra chuckled, cutting off a piece of his patty. “It’s not impossible to be both, my lady.”

She gave a dismissive wave with her hand. “Just Crowley. Everyone calls me Crowley.”

He swallowed, then smiled. “Crowley. I’d be delighted if you’d call me Azra.”

The charming half-smile returned to Miss Crowley’s face. “Azra, then.”

Miss Crowley tended to some other patrons as Azra finished his quail. He paid her when she came back over and said, “You know, I actually haven’t seen much of the town yet. Perhaps you could give me a tour?”

Miss Crowley gave a chuckle as she set to cleaning dishes. “It’d be a short tour. Bentley’s the fastest horse in the county.”

Azra glanced at the jet-black horse still standing outside. It still seemed to be looking into his soul. “That beast out there is _yours?_ ”

“Watch it,” Miss Crowley said, although there was little venom in her voice. “Bentley’s quick, but he’d never harm anyone… Without my say-so.”

Azra chose to ignore that last bit. “Apologies, I’ve never taken to horses, and they’ve certainly never taken to me. Shouldn’t he be fenced in? Or at least tied to something?”

“Bentley would never run away from me. He knows better. As for you not taking to horses, I’m sure I can help with that,” she said, and _winked_ at him. Azra felt himself blush and was about to ask when she was free when two men strode into the saloon, exuding power and confidence.

“Who are those two?” Azra asked instead.

“That would be Sheriff Hastur and Deputy Ligur,” Miss Crowley said, setting down the glass she was drying. The Deputy took a seat at one of the empty tables while Sheriff Hastur approached the end of the counter.

“Annabelle,” he called in a gravelly voice. “Come here.”

Miss Crowley sauntered over and Azra side-eyed the exchange in curiosity.

He was more than a little surprised when the sheriff grabbed Miss Crowley’s shoulder and pulled her in for a kiss over the counter.

“Get us a couple of beers, love,” he said when they parted.

“Sure,” Miss Crowley said, giving her half-smile.

As she went to get the drinks, Hastur caught Azra staring at him. The poet tried to play it off, looking away and standing, but it didn’t work.

“Aren’t you the new shack man?” the Sheriff asked, walking over to stand beside Azra. “I think I saw you coming in last night.”

Azra turned to face him properly. “Is that what everyone’s going to call me?”

“This is Mister Fell, Hastur,” Miss Crowley said. “He’s just moved in from the north.”

“The _north?_ ” Hastur repeated. “Well, I don’t blame you for moving then, Fell! I’d take a shack down here over the finest estate up there any day.”

He barked a laugh. Azra supposed the Sheriff was trying to be charming, but it wasn’t quite coming off right. Still, Azra wasn’t one to judge based off a bad first impression. He stuck out his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff Hastur.”

Hastur took it in a strong grip and shook. “Good to have ya. Care for a drink?”

Azra had been hoping to get started on his work, but he supposed he wasn’t in a position to say no to new potential friends (or a free drink). So he smiled and said he’d be delighted.

Twenty minutes later, sitting at the same table with the Sheriff and Deputy, Azra had decided any potential these fellows had had of being his friends had been squashed.

Hastur was loud and obnoxious, and the consistent jokes that Azra thought were meant to be companionable turned out to be just rude. Azra didn’t like the way the Sheriff kept eyeing up Miss Crowley like she was something to eat, then staring down every man who she served.

Deputy Ligur, on the other hand, was as silent as a stone. He didn’t even seem to move, not when he grunted in response to Sheriff Hastur’s jokes or otherwise. He just kept staring at Azra with eyes that seemed to change color every minute. Azra found the whole thing rather unsettling.

“Let me get you another,” Sheriff Hastur said once Azra had finished his beer. “Anna-!”

“That’s quite alright,” Azra said hurriedly, standing up. “I’d better get home and get started on my work.”

Hastur paused and eyed him. “Another time, then.”

“Yes, yes, another time,” Azra agreed, hoping to never have to hold a conversation with the two men again. He grabbed his tankard and went over to the bar so as to set it down closer to the sink, but he caught Miss Crowley’s gaze just as she was turning around, and he couldn’t help but say, “I would still like that tour. If you’re still willing to give it.”

Miss Crowley raised her eyebrows, glanced at Hastur and Ligur, then leaned in and said, “You can come by at half past ten if you’d really like, but not a moment before.”

Azra smiled as he handed her the glass. “Wonderful,” he said, and left.

*****

Azra arrived back at the Eden Saloon precisely when Miss Crowley had asked him to. The little wooden gate-doors squeaked as he pushed them in and he gazed around the establishment. Oil lamps hanging on the walls were dimmed and Annabelle J. Crowley was cleaning off the top of her piano. Azra tried not to notice how the light played off her curls.

He took off his hat and said, “Miss Crowley?”

She jumped and spun around. When she saw him she put a gloved hand to her chest and sighed. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, why are-” Miss Crowley screwed her eyes shut as if internally chastising herself. “The tour, of course.” She set down the rag she was using and started to quickly undo her apron. 

“Miss Crowley, are you alright?” Azra asked.

“Hm?” 

“You seem distraught. I could come back another time if-”

“No, it’s just- it was a busy night.” Miss Crowley pulled the neck strap of the apron over her head, and when she looked back up she beamed that lovely half-smile. “It’s good to see you.”

Miss Crowley’s eyes were a gorgeous light brown; they appeared almost golden. Azra swallowed and smiled back. “Likewise.”

Miss Crowley set the apron on the bar counter and started heading to a door that Azra assumed led to the back exit. “Bentley’s grazing. If you head out front I’ll bring him ‘round.”

Azra nodded once and said, “Of course.” He put his hat on and went back outside, then fiddled with his coat as he waited. He tried to ignore the sense of nervousness in his gut, pretending it was an aftereffect of moving to a new town.

Soon enough, Azra spotted the enormous black horse that was Bentley come around the corner, now with Miss Crowley sitting tall on top. The pair stopped in front of him.

“Care for a ride, Mr. Fell?” Miss Crowley asked with a grin. Both her and Bentley’s eyes glowed in the moonlight.

Azra smiled. “I’d like nothing better, m’lady.” With some clambering and help from Miss Crowley, Azra managed to get onto the back of the horse.

“Hold tight, poet,” Miss Crowley said before she squeezed Bentley’s sides with her calves. They were racing away in no time, and Azra had to lean to one side to avoid being hit in the face with Miss Crowley’s red curls.

Normally, Azra Fell would be terribly frightened on the back of a speeding horse with a strange woman he’d just met as his guide, but he looked at the light in the side of Miss Crowley’s eyes, and was enraptured.

He didn’t think he’d have any trouble finding inspiration for his poems.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning or other time of day! This chapter's mostly fluff, we'll get into the nitty gritty of things tomorrow with chapter three. Happy reading!

About three weeks later, Azra went into the Eden Saloon on a slow Wednesday afternoon. He’d taken to visiting the establishment for lunch if it wasn’t too busy and having lovely chats with Miss Crowley as he ate.

There were only three other people in the saloon that day. Two of them were discussing something in the corner, and one was passed out at a table, hand still wrapped around his tankard. Miss Crowley was cleaning off the top of her piano while glaring at her herbs, back turned to Azra.

He walked up to the side of her before speaking. “Good afternoon, Miss Crowley. How do you do?”

She turned to him and gave that half-smile he loved so much. “Azra. What can I get you?” she asked, tossing her long curls as she straightened up.

“Just the usual, my dear. A water and quail patty, please.” Miss Crowley nodded and went behind the bar. Usually Azra would take a seat at the counter, but this time he lingered by the piano. “You take excellent care of this instrument, Miss Crowley, but I’ve never seen you play it.”

“Oh, I don’t know how,” Miss Crowley said as she filled up his water. “There was a, ah, a fellow some time ago who would come in all the time to play.” She paused as she turned off the tap. “I used to sing along. All the time.

“But that was years ago; no one’s played it since.”

Miss Crowley looked uncharacteristically sad, and frankly, Azra couldn’t stand for it. He played an experimental five-note scale and asked, “Would you mind if I had a go?”

Miss Crowley gave a noncommittal shrug, not looking at him. Azra felt that this was good enough, and took a seat on the piano bench. He stretched his fingers, thought for a moment, then started playing the opening to _Amazing Grace_.

He stalled at the end of the opener, sneaking a glance at Miss Crowley. She seemed unimpressed, still not looking at him as she cooked his patty.

Abruptly, Azra switched gears and started vamping an intro to _Camptown Races_. Miss Crowley blinked and looked at him, eyebrows the slightest bit raised.

The poet smiled at her. “Perhaps something a little more upbeat, eh?” He played a couple chords to end the vamp, then sang:

_“Camptown ladies sing this song, doo-dah! Doo-dah! Camptown race-track five miles long, oh, doo-dah day!”_

Azra had attracted the attention of the two chaps in the corner, and Miss Crowley was pursing her lips in a vain effort not to smile.

“Feel free to join in, Miss Crowley, this is a song for everyone!” Azra said. _“Gonna run all night!”_

Miss Crowley rolled her eyes but couldn’t seem to help herself. She smiled and joined in as a harmony. _“Gonna run all day!”_

_“I bet my money on a bob-tail nag, somebody bet on the bay.”_

The two men in the corner were smiling too now, one bouncing his head and the other tapping his foot. The drunk man had roused and was smiling vaguely.

_“The long tail filly and the big black horse, doo-dah! Doo-dah!”_ Azra sang. _“They fly the track- and they… cut… across?”_

Miss Crowley had stopped singing. She was furtively cooking Azra’s patty, pretending that she hadn’t been singing in the first place. The two men in the corner had gone back to talking with each other, and the drunk man was no longer smiling.

“Didn’t know you played, Fell,” came a familiar gravelly voice behind him.

Azra rose from his seat and turned. Sheriff Hastur stood in the doorway, Deputy Ligur by his side. “I- ah- I’ve dabbled,” the poet stammered.

“Oh, don’t be so _modest_ ,” Hastur said around the cigar sticking out of his mouth, his black eyes shooting daggers at the poet. “Do you play for Annabelle often?”

Azra was trying to will the blush on his face to go away. “I haven’t played in years, Sheriff, I-”

Suddenly, Hastur was standing directly in front of Azra, their faces inches away. The poet tried not to cough on the smoke coming out of Hastur’s cigar. “Don’t fuck with me, Fell,” the sheriff said in a low voice.

“Hastur, please-” Miss Crowley said. Her voice provoked something in Azra, a flare he’d only felt once in the past, just before walking out on his cousins.

The poet straightened up and stared Hastur down. “I assure you, _Sheriff_ , no one here wants to ‘fuck’ with someone like you.”

He spun around and took a seat at the bar, right in front of Miss Crowley. He lifted the water she’d placed on the counter and drank from it. She was the one blushing now, but she smiled at him, a full-blown smile that matched the one she’d had while singing.

Azra expected the Sheriff and Deputy to start a fight with him, but they just tossed out the drunkard and took his table instead. The poet found he couldn’t care less what the two of them did, he felt victory in his euphemistic words, and saw it in the golden eyes of Miss Crowley.

*****

The victory didn’t last long.

Azra had planned to go back to the Eden Saloon the next day, but a painted sign reading “CLOSED” hung on the wooden doors. Bentley was nowhere in sight, and Azra didn’t catch a glimpse of Miss Crowley inside. Another six days went by with these same results, and the night of that last day, Azra sat at his desk, beside himself with anxiety.

Logically speaking, he should’ve been more worried that he was already a month into his stay at Soho and only had 42 new poems written than about a woman whom he’d only known for four weeks, the last of which he hadn’t even seen her. Yet here he was, pen in hand, paper on table, and all his thoughts pulled to Miss Crowley.

Whether he’d made her upset or provoked Sheriff Hastur into forcing her to close the saloon, Azra was sure the situation was his fault. Had the pair been arguing the whole time this past week? Azra must have crossed a line with the Sheriff, and now Miss Crowley was paying for it. The poet couldn’t think of a way to fix the situation, no matter how much he racked his brain.

There suddenly came a single swift and heavy knock on his door. Azra jumped and stood, turning to face the sound. The knock came again, and now the poet could see his door trying valiantly to stay on its hinges.

He yelled some mixture between “I’m coming!” and “What the _hell?!_ ” as he crossed the floor. Azra wrenched his door open and faced the flank of an enormous horse.

“B-Bentley?” Azra stammered. The horse turned around and confirmed the poet’s suspicions; Bentley’s eyes glowed with a fierceness in them.

Azra leaned partway out the door, looking around. “Miss Crowley? Are you- Ah!”

Bentley bit the collar of Azra’s shirt and dragged him out of the shack. “Let go of me you beast!” yelled Azra. “I don’t even have my _hat!_ ” No matter how much Azra protested, Bentley didn’t let go. If anyone heard his cries, they didn’t come to Azra’s aid. The horse managed to drag the poet all the way to the Eden Saloon.

The sleek black steed dropped his grip on Azra’s collar in front of the steps that led to the doors. “What do you think you’re-?!” Azra began, but stopped as he heard a set of chords being played on a piano, and someone quietly singing along.

_“Whatever happens, I’ll leave it all to chance. Another heartache, another failed romance-”_

This late at night, it couldn’t have been anybody but Miss Crowley, and Azra was entranced by her voice.

_“-on and on. Does anybody know what we are living for?”_

Azra turned to Bently and the horse gave him a look as if saying, “What? You think I pulled you all the way out here to be serenaded? Get in there!”

The poet swallowed and climbed the stairs as Miss Crowley sang and Bentley watched. For a moment, he lingered in the doorway to listen to her play.

_“The show must go on. Inside my heart is breaking. My makeup may be flaking, but my smile still stays on.”_

Miss Crowley retracted her hands and sighed. “I thought you said you didn’t play,” Azra said from outside the gate-doors.

She turned to look at him, not seeming to be surprised by his presence. Then again, she didn’t seem anything from behind the strange pair of tinted glasses she was wearing. Her perfect curls were covering the right side of her face. “I don’t,” she said. “My friend from way back who did, he taught me to play a couple chords, but that’s it. Are you coming in or are you just going to leer at me from outside?”

Azra looked down, unsure if he had really been staring or not. He felt rather underdressed, especially in front of a lady. “I’m not wearing my coat,” Azra mumbled.

“All the more reason to get out of the night’s chill.” 

Hesitantly, Azra pushed open the wooden doors and stepped inside. “Happy one-month anniversary,” Miss Crowley said.

“Thank you,” Azra responded. He fidgeted for a moment, Miss Crowley not saying anything more, before blurting out, “Oh Crowley, what _happened?_ You were gone for a _week,_ I thought Hastur had-”

“Hastur and I are done,” Miss Crowley said evenly.

“Done?”

“Done. No more. _Finito_ ,” she confirmed. “It was a long time coming. He was always too possessive. I closed the saloon for a week to sort things out.

“I see,” Azra said. “Are you… OK?”

Miss Crowley closed the lid of her piano and leaned on it. “Are you?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Why did you leave your old town, Azra?”

“I-” The poet was still confused for a moment, but looking at Miss Crowley’s face, he knew the inquiry was serious. He thought back to his old home. It had been beautiful, to be sure, but… “My family was always pushing me to be something I wasn’t. They meant well, I think, but I just had to get out of there. It was for the best.”

“Still, that was your family. It must’ve been hard to leave,” Miss Crowley said. “Are you OK?”

Azra Fell thought, then answered, “I don’t regret my decision.”

“Hm,” Miss Crowley said. She flipped her hair out of her face and removed her glasses. Her right eye was encapsulated by a ring of sickly purple. “Neither do I.”

“Miss Crowley!” Azra exclaimed, rushing over to her. “Hastur did this to you?”

“I’m fine Azra, really. It looks worse than it is, and it’s gotten better. Besides,” she said, using one of his hands to help herself stand up, “it was the push I needed to finally break it off with that bastard.

“Come have a drink with me, we’ll celebrate new beginnings,” she said, making her way behind the bar.

“I’m glad you’re taking such an optimistic stance on this,” Azra said, taking a seat at the counter, “but Hastur doesn’t seem the type to give up easily. What if he comes back, threatens you?”

“Ha!” With one finger, Miss Crowley pulled the front of her dress forward, reached in with her other hand, and retrieved a small revolver from between her breasts. “I’d like to see him try.”

“Goodness, Crowley,” Azra said in a low voice, eyes wide.

“What?” Miss Crowley said, returning the revolver to her bosom. “Everyone in Soho has a gun.”

“ _I_ don’t have a gun!” said Azra. “They make me nervous.”

“Of course they do,” Miss Crowley said, but not unkindly. “Do you like wine?”

Azra nodded. “I found out you’ve been published before, back in your hometown,” Miss Crowley continued as she rooted around in her cupboards. “ _City in Silver_ by A. Z. Fell. Only 50 poems that time.”

“You read my book?” asked Azra. He could feel a blush spread on his cheeks that he hoped wasn’t noticeable in the lamplight.

“I did, though it was a bit gloomy for my tastes.” Miss Crowley set three bottles of wine on the counter, as well as two glasses. “Will your next book be any cheerier?”

“I hope so,” Azra said. Miss Crowley opened a bottle and poured him a glass. “It’s rather late, my dear, I probably won’t be able to stay long.”

“That’s fine,” Miss Crowley said as she poured a glass for herself. “So, Azra Z. Fell, what does the ‘Z’ stand for?”

Azra’s blush deepened and he sipped his drink. “It’s just a ‘Z,’ really.”

Two hours later, the both of them were stone drunk, giggling as they made a game of guessing each other’s middle names.

“Zachary,” said Miss Crowley.

“I wish,” scoffed Azra. “Jane.”

“Not even close. Zeus.”

“ _Zeus?_ No. Josephine?”

“Nope. Zavier.”

“I thought that was supposed to start with an ‘x?’ Oh well. Um, Juliet?”

“You’re not even trying!” Miss Crowley accused as she smiled.

Azra tipped back the rest of his wine, set the glass down with a slight _clunk_ , and said with a straight face, “Jannabelle.”

Miss Crowley threw her head back in laughter, red curls bouncing on her shoulders. Azra smiled and propped up his head in one hand, thinking she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She abruptly stopped laughing and looked at him with wide eyes. Shit, had he said that out loud?

Azra suddenly found the last drop of wine in his glass terribly interesting. “I, um, I just meant- ah-”

“Azra-”

“No, no. What I mean is-” Azra tried to use the alcohol in his system to his advantage in giving him the courage to speak. “I mean… my old home was beautiful, absolutely gorgeous. I’ve heard visitors from all over say it’s their ideal place to live. But I- I could never _settle_ when I was there. I was surrounded by people that made me feel- how did you put it?- gloomy. So I wrote gloomy poems.

“Now I’m here in Soho, and I talk with you. And you, you’re _wonderful_ , Miss Crowley. You’re smart, and brave, and talented. When I look at you, I think, ‘Now _there’s_ someone to write about.’ I certainly hope my poems are happier this time around, because I’m so much happier with-”

Suddenly, Azra’s head was tilted up by Crowley cupping the side of his face. Golden eyes stared into teal ones with earnest. “You,” Azra finished.

The kiss was soft and deep. Azra would have no trouble getting back to work the next day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the fluff delves into angst. Chapter four will be up tomorrow, happy reading!

It was three weeks before the due date of Azra’s poems, and he’d never felt better. He was on track, even ahead, of having his book done on time. Now it was nearly noon, and Azra was working his morning side job: playing the piano at the Eden Saloon.

The poet finished the ditty he was playing with a flourish and stood, done for the day. A few patrons booed good-naturedly. Azra smiled and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow at nine o’clock, I assure you.” He took his usual seat at the counter, taking a sip of the water that had already been placed there.

Crowley came over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Nice playing, poet. Your quail will be ready in a minute.”

“Thank you, dear,” Azra said, smiling back.

“Your music is starting to bring in more people than I can serve,” she said. “I’ll have to hire a helper soon enough.”

“Is that so?”

Crowley tilted his chin up with her index and middle fingers, giving a wicked smile. “If the poetry doesn’t work out, you can be my _wench_.”

They both laughed at that, Crowley moving her hand to cup Azra’s cheek and her face relaxing into that usual half-smile. Azra felt like the luckiest man alive.

*****

A bit over two hours later, Azra was heading back to his home, planning to work for a few hours before meeting Crowley for a dinner date. He was whistling some tune or another that fell away when he saw Deputy Ligur standing by his door, looking out with his usual stoic broodiness.

The Deputy, however, actually smiled when he saw Azra coming. “Mr. Fell!” he called, giving a wave. “I was hoping to catch you!”

Azra approached with caution. “Um… Hello, Deputy?”

Ligur raised his hands in a calming gesture. “You’re not in trouble, I promise. Actually, I’ve come to apologize. Should’ve come by a while ago, really.”

“A-apologize?” Azra asked, furrowing his brow. “What for?”

“Hastur’s behavior. He can be… _intense_ sometimes.” Deputy Ligur chuckled to himself. “Trust me, I’ve been working with him long enough to know. But he was completely out of line before, and was dealt with accordingly. That’s actually why I took so long to come ‘round; I was temporary Sheriff while Hastur was ‘on leave.’ He’s back in his position now, and I came by because I don’t want you or Miss Crowley to be afraid of people in charge of the law. You can always come to me if you’ve got a problem and aren’t comfortable getting Hastur.”

Azra was beyond confused. “Well, thank you, Deputy, but I think Crowley’s the one who’s most owed an apology.”

Deputy Ligur nodded his head solemnly. “Agreed. Miss Crowley is a good woman and deserves the best, which I sincerely hope you are, Mr. Fell. Unfortunately, she doesn’t like me all that much. I’ve got a way of putting people off. I don’t think she’d want to hear anything I’d have to say.”

Still trying to make sense of the situation, Azra recalled the previous times he’d encountered Ligur. He was fairly certain this was the first time he’d actually heard the Deputy speak. Had he based his dislike on Ligur simply because of his stoicism? No, his proximity to Hastur had surely had some influence to it. Now, however, it sounded like Ligur was in a forced proximity with Hastur rather than a voluntary friendship. The Deputy seemed genuine in his regrets.

“Well, I’ll- I’ll try to pass a message off to her,” Azra said. “Would you… like to come in?

“Oh, no, thank you,” Ligur said. “I should be off. Deputy things and all that. Perhaps another time?”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like that,” Azra said, meaning it. The two said their goodbyes and the poet entered his abode, feeling oddly pleased.

*****

That night, after Azra and Crowley had eaten, the couple were sitting side-by-side on the piano bench. Azra was playing a sweet, flowing ballad while Crowley gently traced patterns on his back.

“You play so beautifully, poet,” Crowley said in a soft voice.

“I could teach you how, if you’d like,” Azra offered in an equally hushed tone.

“‘Fraid my interest died a long time ago.”

“Did you get bored after your friend taught you those few chords?” Crowley was silent at this. Her hand still rested on Azra’s back, but it had stopped moving.

He stalled on the notes he was playing and looked at her. Crowley’s face was solemn, staring at nothing. “My dear?” Azra asked, narrowing his eyes in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s- I-” Crowley’s gaze flicked to his, then went back down as she folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Freddie died.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Azra said, taking his hands off the piano and moving an arm around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

“There was a fire,” she said, still staring at her own hands, forcing herself to retain composure. “A freak accident in his home. Hastur and Ligur were the first to arrive, but _apparently_ they were too late.”

Azra recalled his earlier conversation with Ligur and the promise he’d made. “I’m sure the Deputy would have done something if he could have.”

Crowley looked at him with scorned wonderment. “Excuse me?”

“I- Well I just meant- I mean, he seems reliable enough,” Azra stammered, backtracking.

“ _That’s_ your concern right now? My opinion of _Ligur?_ ” Crowley shrugged off Azra’s arm, standing. “It’s getting late, Azra, I’m tired. You should leave.”

“Crowley, I-”

“Good _night._ ” She stamped her way to the stairs that led to her bedroom, the herbs and flowers seeming to shake as she went, and that was that.

*****

The next three weeks went by in a flurry for Azra. He managed to make up with Crowley quickly enough with apologies both in private and in song on the piano, but there was still a certain reservedness about her that hadn’t been there before.

On the other hand, Azra had developed a friendship with Ligur. The two had chats while strolling about town or having drinks at saloons (not the Eden Saloon, and none of the other establishments held a candle to Crowley’s quality, but Azra still enjoyed himself), and the poet grew more and more fond of the Deputy.

Azra completed the last of his poems the day before his deadline, and turned them in the day they were due. That night, he and Ligur were in his shack, celebrating with a bottle of wine the Deputy had brought over.

Trouble was, Azra wasn’t in a celebratory mood.

“She’s become so _distant_ ,” Azra fretted, sitting in his desk chair. “I should’ve just consoled her, and I’m worried she won’t give me a second chance with something so personal.”

“Hm,” Ligur said, handing the poet a drink (which he downed in two gulps). “Women are a whole different species, my friend.”

“No, I…” Azra started while absentmindedly holding out his glass for more. Ligur obliged. “Well, I suppose she was a bit quick to shut down the conversation.”

Their talk continued in the same thread for a half hour, Ligur offering assurances while Azra worried and drank.

“I just- oooh,” Azra said, the room suddenly spinning. His glass crashed to the floor and the poet put his head in his hands. “I don’t feel well.”

“I should think you wouldn’t.” Ligur said. “You’ve had enough of that stuff to put you out for at least an hour.”

“I can usually hold my liquor better than-” Azra cut himself off as he realized Ligur hadn’t had a drink of his own the whole time he’d been visiting, and the poet feared the Deputy wasn’t talking about the wine. “Ligur?”

“Don’t worry, Azra,” Ligur said. “The _Sheriff_ will be by to have a look at you.”

Dread turned to anger at Ligur’s words. “You- you’ve _tricked_ me! You’ve-” Azra stood to give the Deputy a piece of his mind, and promptly collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

*****

“Shou… ld him… cally easy.”

“He… ool.”

Azra was slowly regaining consciousness. His head was pounding and he felt nauseous, but he could make out bits and pieces of a conversation between Hastur and Ligur.

“Mmmmf,” he uttered. It was impossible to say anything more with the gag tied around his mouth, looping itself between his jaws.

“Oh, look! The poet’s awake,” Ligur said. Azra could only see their blurry outlines, but he could hear the cruel smile on his former companion’s face.

“‘Bout time,” said Hastur. The Sheriff flicked on a lighter and held it to his cigar. Azra tried to stand, but his ankles were tied to the legs of his desk chair and his wrists were bound behind him.

“Don’t bother, Fell,” Hastur said. “You’re not going anywhere. Serves you right for sticking your nose in another man’s business. But it’s best to look on the bright side!”

He gave a shark’s smile as he held his lighter’s flame to Azra’s scattered papers and wooden furniture. “Artists are so much more popular when they’re _dead._ ”

The fires spread slowly but surely, and Azra yelled as best he could in alarm. Hastur and Ligur headed for the door, and the Deputy said on their way out, “Don’t worry, we’ll be just outside. First on the scene.”

They shut the door behind them, and there was a _click_ of what must have been Azra’s stolen house key turning the lock. Azra struggled to free himself, but the ropes were too tight and the knots too complicated for him to do anything. The flames grew and spread all the while, getting ever closer to where he sat.

At the peak of his desperation, Azra heard the unmistakable sound of horse hooves thundering outside.

“Annabelle?” he heard Hastur say.

“I thought-”

_BANG_

“FUCK!”

_BANG, BANG_

A few seconds after the last gunshot, Azra heard the familiar sound of Bentley trying to break down his door.

“POET!” he heard Crowley shout over the roar of the flames and the thuds of Bentley’s hooves. “Azra, _please,_ are you in there?!”

He tried to call out Crowley’s name, but all that came out was a muffled mess of syllables.

His door gave way with a splintering _CRACK_ , breaking into two pieces and falling to the floor as newfound kindling. Crowley raced into the shack, and Bentley somehow managed to fit himself through the doorway to follow her.

 _“Poet!”_ Crowley cried, gathering her skirts and running to him. She picked up one of the broken pieces of the glass he’d dropped earlier and used it to cut his bonds. Bentley, ever-faithful, stomped out any flames that got too close to Crowley or Azra, burning himself in the process.

Crowley worked fast, and within seconds Azra was free. She tossed away his gag and helped him to stand up. He was still feeling the effects of whatever drug Ligur had given him, and so had to lean heavily on Crowley.

“I’m… sorry…” Azra said, though with all the excitement, he couldn’t quite remember what he was apologizing for. Several things, he thought.

“No, poet, _I’m_ sorry,” Crowley said as she guided him out of the ruined house. “I should have known, but even I didn’t think that Hastur… It’s going to be OK, I’m going to make sure we’re safe.”

When all three of them were a safe distance away, Crowley started to help Azra mount Bentley. Nearby, Azra saw the collapsed form of Ligur. The Deputy stared past the sky into nothing, a bullet hole between his eyes.

“You shot him,” Azra said. There was no trace of horror or admonition in his voice, he was just stating a fact in the midst of a night that seemed so much like a dream.

“What? Yes. Poet, _please_ ,” Crowley pleaded. Azra clambered on top of Bentley, and Crowley climbed up behind him, fitting her arms beneath his to simultaneously get a hold of the reins and hold him in place.

Soon enough, Bentley was speeding off, going faster than he’d ever gone before. Despite the speed and bumpiness of the ride, Azra leaned back into Crowley’s chest and fell asleep. Before he lost consciousness, he thought he might’ve felt Crowley press a kiss into his white-blond curls.

*****

He awoke to Crowley shaking him.

“Hm?”

“Please, Azra, you have to wake up.”

He let her guide him off Bentley’s back and onto the ground. About half a mile off, he could see a small town. Still sleepy, he asked, “What’s going on, Crowley?”

She held his hands. “I’m sorry, poet, but I need you to stay here for a while. I have to go back to Soho. Ligur’s dead, but Hastur got away, and we’re in danger as long as he’s out there. You’ll be safe here for now. Ask for Anathema Device, she’ll take care of you.”

“Crowley-” Azra started to say, but was cut off as she moved her hands to his face and gave him a kiss, deep and needful.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, then mounted Bentley and rode off, leaving a trail of dust behind her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final chapter, and I reckon it's high time for a showdown (and for all the other characters I put in the tags to make an appearance), don't you? Future fic announcements at the end, happy reading!

“Do you think he’s dead?”

“Actually no, he’s still breathing.”

“Do you think he’s _dying?_ ”

“Don’t be morbid, Brian!”

“Guys, be quiet. Dog, wake him up.”

Azra was pulled into full consciousness as a small, wet tongue started licking his face. 

“Ack!” he yelled, pushing off what turned out to be a tiny black and white dog. Looking around, he realized he was lying in an alley, surrounded by four crouched children.

“Hi,” said a boy with sandy brown curls, presumably the owner of the dog.

“Hello,” Azra said, not sure what to make of his situation.

“Are you a bandit?” asked another boy with dirt all over his clothes.

“He’s obviously not a bandit, Brian!” said a young lady. “He doesn’t have a horse or a gun.”

“Actually, he could be hiding a gun,” said the third boy with oversized glasses.

 _“Guys.”_ The single word from the curly-haired boy commanded silence, and his companions obliged. He looked down to Azra. “Are you a bandit?”

“No, and I’m not hiding a gun, either,” Azra answered. He propped himself up into a sitting position and the children scooched back to make room for him. His headache had subsided, but his memories of the previous night were spotty. “My name is Azra, I’m just a poet. Can one of you tell me where I am?”

“This is Tadfield,” said the curly-haired boy. “My name’s Adam. This is Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale. And that’s Dog.”

The little dog gave a bark of affirmation and Adam asked, “What are you doing in an alley?”

Azra struggled to remember the previous night. “I was dropped off by Crowley and… I was still so tired, I must have passed out here. I’m supposed to find… a Device?”

“What sort of device?” asked Brian.

“Actually, I think he means the witch,” said Wensleydale. “But she’s on her honeymoon and won’t be back for a few more days.”

“We could take him to the pretend witch,” suggested Pepper.

“'The pretend witch'?” asked Azra, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s not a witch, but she acts rather witchy,” explained Adam. “She’ll know what to do.”

*****

“You just sit right there and make yourself comfortable while I make a nice cup of tea,” said the pretend witch, who had introduced herself as Madame Tracy. Azra was sitting at her kitchen table, and looking around at the decor of beads and spiritual to macabre objects, he had to admit she did give off a slight witchy vibe. The air was heavy, smelling vaguely of flowers, and candles were lit around the house.

He wasn’t quite sure if the old man in the other room was her husband or not.

The children, whom Azra learned were known in town as “the Them,” were standing around munching on biscuits Madame Tracy had given them. They wanted to hear the entirety of Azra’s story.

“Now,” Madame Tracy said, setting down one cup of tea for Azra and one for herself, “start at the beginning.”

For a moment, Azra just gripped his cup. He was too trusting of a person, Ligur was proof of that, and he didn’t really know any of these people. The children had helped him, and Madame Tracy seemed nice enough (again, he didn’t know what to think of the old man), but could he confide in them?

Then he thought of Crowley, with her shining red hair and golden eyes, and her promise to return after she’d taken care of Hastur. Azra figured it couldn’t have been much later than three in the morning when she’d dropped him off at Tadfield, and Madame Tracy’s clock read the current time as a quarter past eleven. With a horse like Bentley, he couldn’t help but wonder what was taking her so long. 

Crowley was clever, but Hastur was efficient, and certainly on the offensive after last night. If she was in trouble, Azra couldn’t afford to deny any help.

So he told Madame Tracy everything, and the Them listened with rapt attention. Moving to Soho, meeting Crowley, his confrontation with Hastur, Ligur’s betrayal, Hastur’s escape, he told it all. He wasn’t sure if Madame Tracy would believe his story of an unlawful Sheriff, but she was nodding in sympathy even after he was done.

“Oh yes, Miss Device- well, it’s Mrs. Pulsifer now- she brought some horrible stories about that Sheriff Hastur with her when she moved here from Soho.”

The old man finally emerged from the neighboring room, sticking his head out. “This Sheriff o’ yours,” he said, “how many nipples has he got?”

Azra balked. “Um… two, I believe?” he said. “Does it matter?”

“O’ course it matters!” the old man said, now standing fully in the doorway. “Witches are the most serious threat to our society!”

The Them were snickering and Madame Tracy sighed. “Mr. Shadwell, can’t you see the poor man’s gone through enough already?”

“He’ll be goin’ through a lot more if he’s dealin’ with a witch! The whole town’s in danger, bein’ policed by such a creature.”

Azra uttered a small, helpless groan at the thought of what Hastur may have done to Crowley. He put his head in his hands and said, “Oh my dear, I’ve _left_ her! She’s gone after that monster of a Sheriff and I didn’t even try to stop her!”

“Well, there’s no reason to be such a baby about it,” said Pepper. Azra raised his head enough to look at her, brows furrowed. “If you love her so much, you should go help her.”

“Pepper’s right,” said Adam. “You won’t get anything done just sitting around feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Aye, don’t be a pansy,” said Shadwell.

“I- yes, you’re all right,” said Azra, sniffing and sitting up, “but I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, for a start,” said Madame Tracy, rising from her chair, “you can borrow my horse so that you can go back. Wait here a moment, she’s grazing in the back, I’ll bring her to the front.” She left for the back door.

“Are ya sure this Hastur only has the two nipples?” asked Shadwell.

Azra decided it wouldn’t hurt to stick one lie in his story. “Actually, I’ve heard a few rumors that he has _five_."

The old man paled and gave a low whistle. “Give me a second.” He went back into the room he’d been sitting in and returned with what looked like a miniature cannon attached to the stock of a rifle. “Take this. The Thundergun is guaranteed to vaporize any witch.”

He handed Azra the gun just as Madame Tracy called out that her horse, Scooter, was ready. Azra wasn’t fond of horses, and he wasn’t fond of guns, but he was fond of Crowley. God help whoever stood in his way to get her back.

Azra and Adam shared a look as the poet gained his newfound determination. “I don’t have anything I can give you,” the child said, “but I can send you good luck.”

*****

Fat lot of good Adam’s luck did Azra 45 minutes later when the poet realized he had no idea where he was going. The Thundergun sat heavy strapped to his back, and Azra sat heavy on Scooter’s. For all her work, the little cream-coloured horse couldn’t seem to go any faster than a dull trot.

Azra had only ever ridden Bentley before, not that he had expected Scooter to reach speeds anywhere near what that stallion could manage, but he thought that at this point he could get to Soho faster by walking aimlessly.

“Please, Scooter,” Azra said, leaning forward to stroke her tangled mane, “Crowley’s in danger. I _have_ to get to Soho, can’t you go any faster?”

Azra squeezed his calves against her sides in an effort to get her to canter, but Scooter gave no response. Her speed remained sluggish.

The poet sighed and sat back up, trying not to give in to the feeling of despair he’d become so familiar with.

He heard it before he saw it. Thundering hooves in the distance, going faster than most riders would think possible. Azra squinted at the horizon, not daring to believe it. Yet there it was, a black dot coming toward him, growing clearer every second.

For a moment, Scooter faltered in her gate, even going backward a few steps. Before she got too frightened, Bentley gave a greeting whinny, which Scooter eventually returned. The little horse moved forward again and Azra was laughing, almost crying. Crowley was coming back, she was safe!

His joy was wiped clean as he saw that Crowley was not riding Bentley; the steed was alone. They met up and the two horses took a moment to smell each other. Azra reached forward to scratch the side of Bentley’s face. “Bentley, what happened? Where’s Crowley?” he asked.

Bentley’s eyes shone with intelligence and worry. Up close, Azra could see the spots where the fire had burnt away his glossy coat. The horse went to stand at the side of Scooter. Even with Azra sitting tall, Bentley’s back was level with the poet’s shoulder. He gave a soft, low whinny and Azra realized he was inviting the poet for a ride.

“I can’t leave Scooter!” Azra said. “I have to return her to Madame Tracy.”

Bentley gave a huff of annoyance and began to behave in a way Azra thought was strange. He started to bump up against Scooter, giving little nudges of hoof against hoof, leg against side, head against neck. Scooter neighed in curiosity and the horses sniffed each other again, muzzles almost touching.

Bentley moved ahead so that he was some distance away and gave that same low whinny. Scooter moved to stand beside him. He trotted ahead again and she followed.

Then Bentley ran. Not nearly as fast as he could go, but Scooter had never galloped at such a speed.

With Bentley as their guide, Azra let the smallest bit of hope settle inside himself. _Crowley, my dear, please hang on,_ he thought. _I’m coming for you._

*****

They had to take a few breaks to let Scooter rest, and with the speed they were going, the sun was just starting to set when they reached the outskirts of Soho. Azra pulled Scooter to a halt and Bentley turned to face them, seeming to wonder why they had stopped when they were so close.

“It’ll be easier for me to get her if I’m not seen,” Azra explained. “You’ll draw too much attention. Where is Crowley?”

Bentley huffed and tossed his head toward the right side of town. Azra had been expecting Crowley to either be in jail or the morgue, but neither those nor the Eden Saloon were in that direction. He dimly remembered what was over there from a tour given to him on the very horse that stood before him.

That was the way to Hastur’s house.

Azra gulped and dismounted Scooter. He scratched Bentley’s side appreciatively and said, “I’ll be back with her. Watch over Scooter while I’m gone.”

Said dusty horse sidled up to the other side of Bentley and nuzzled his shoulder. The black steed looked at Scooter, then back to Azra, and neighed in agreement. Azra nodded as thanks, then turned and began his trek to the Sheriff’s house.

People mostly minded their own business in Soho, but while carrying a small cannon on his back, Azra took caution not to be seen. The first stars were coming out as he surveyed Hastur’s home from a distance. The wood was faded and peeling, even rotting in some spots, giving the two-story house an unsettling feeling to match its owner. There was no sign of the Sheriff through the windows, and when Azra made his way to the front door, it proved to be unlocked.

He was hit by the smell first, which mixed must, cheap booze, and vomit. The quality of the wood inside was no better than that of the outside, and Azra thought is was a miracle that the house was still standing. He bit back the urge to call out Crowley’s name, lest Hastur be the one who answered.

Azra was unsure how to proceed, if he should explore this floor or go upstairs, when he heard a creak above him. He took a moment to gather his courage, then snuck to the stairs, doing his best not to upset them as he climbed.

The floor above had four rooms, three of which had open doors and lead to nowhere interesting. The fourth was closed, standing ominously at the end of the hall. Azra crept his way to it and bent down to peep through a keyhole below its doorknob. The space inside was obviously Hastur’s poor excuse for a bedroom, with a small dresser and an unmade, moth-eaten bed tucked into a dark corner. There was no sign of the Sheriff, but if Azra pressed his ear to the icy metal of the keyhole, he thought he could hear a muffled, ragged breathing.

The poet straightened up and gently opened the door, the grease of the knob coming off on his hand. He stepped inside and was relieved to find that Hastur was indeed not in the room, but he could now hear that the breathing was really a quiet weeping, and it definitely didn’t belong to the Sheriff. Azra turned to see a closet door, and knew whoever was crying was behind it.

Azra approached, not yet daring to say anything as slight hope mixed with cold dread in his stomach. The floorboards creaked beneath him, causing the crying to stop and anticipation to fill the air. He let out a held breath and twisted the handle.

Just as he’d hoped and feared, Crowley was inside. He uttered a small, “Oh, my _dear_ ,” at the same time she cried out what may have been his name. She was gagged in the same way he had been not 24 hours earlier, her feet bound together and arms behind her back. She’d been stripped to her undergarments and beaten, bruises and lashes covering her body. Azra dropped to kneel beside her, taking off the gag and then moving to work on her wrists.

“Poet, what are you- we need to-” Crowley stammered, wincing from her injuries.

“Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, my dear,” Azra soothed. “I’m going to get you out of here. Bentley and Scooter are just outside of town; we can ride away.”

“Bentley and who?” Crowley asked. She looked away from him for a moment and her golden eyes suddenly filled with fear. _“Look out!”_

Azra didn’t have time to turn before a rough hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him up and out of the closet.

“And here I was thinking I’d have to go looking for you!” Hastur said with a slur in his voice and gin on his breath, putting the poet into a chokehold. “You just came to me!”

 _“Poet!”_ Crowley shouted, struggling to free herself the rest of the way. “Let him _go,_ Hastur!”

The Sheriff was wrestling Azra out of the bedroom and out of the hall, unable to get a proper grip because of the Thundergun pressed between them. Azra used the space to his advantage, leaning his head as far forward as he could, then snapping it back into Hastur’s face. The Sheriff cried out and released his hold, but he’d been perched at the edge of the stairs, and he grabbed the back of Azra’s collar so that the both of them tumbled down the steps.

The strap of the Thundergun snapped, and the weapon bounced away from Azra with several _clangs_ of metal on wood. Azra hadn’t suffered any broken or fractured bones by the time he reached the bottom, but he was severely dazed, unable to stop Hastur from straddling him and digging his thumbs into his throat.

“Y’know, I tried to get Crowley to tell me where she’d hidden you,” Hastur said as Azra choked. “I said I’d forgive her for all she’d done, that we could start over if she just told me where you were, but no matter what I did, she wouldn’t say. How _sweet._ ”

Black dots encroached on the sides of Azra’s vision as his mind was deprived of oxygen. “Why’d she fall for you, Fell?” Hastur asked through yellow, gritted teeth. “Why’d she kill Ligur for you?”

“Get off of him!” Crowley yelled, free of her bonds and racing down the stairs. She jumped on Hastur and started to beat and bite him. The Sheriff shouted and let go of Azra in an effort to prise Crowley off. Azra gasped and coughed as Crowley managed to roll herself and Hastur off the poet.

Fighting through the dizziness, Azra spotted the Thundergun and stumbled to it. He hoisted it off the floor to point at Hastur, but the Sheriff had flipped Crowley off his back and was now using her as a human shield.

“Take your best shot, Fell!” Hastur yelled, arms staying strong despite his impaired state. “That is, if you think you can make it.”

“Azra…” Crowley choked out, digging her fingernails into the arm around her neck. Hastur held her so violently that she was having trouble keeping her feet on the floor.

The shot was impossible. Azra had never fired a gun in his life; he wouldn’t have been able to hit such a pinpoint mark with a pistol, let alone with the “witch vaporizer” he held. He was close to panic, looking from the desperate golden eyes of Crowley to the unforgiving black pits of Hastur’s and back again. The rotting house creaked and groaned from all the commotion.

Those noises sparked an idea in Azra. Perhaps not a good one, but the poet was willing to try anything. He raised the Thundergun at an angle to the ceiling, directly above his adversary’s and his love’s heads, and fired.

The recoil sent Azra sprawling onto his back with a shout. A hole at least a meter in diameter had been blown in the ceiling, damaging the upstairs hallway, a couple rooms, and a bit of the roof. For a moment, the three of them remained in silent stillness, Hastur having loosened his grip but not quite relinquishing his hold on Crowley.

Then, it became clear that the house could not handle its new structure. Floorboards and walls started to sink in on themselves, and heavy furniture toppled over to make it snap all the faster. Crowley finally tore herself away from Hastur, running to where Azra lay and covering his body with her own before the house crumbled. Azra put his hand on the back of her head and neck in an attempt to protect her.

The chaos reigned for about ten seconds, a splintering cacophony falling around them, then settled itself. Azra didn’t move at first. Instead, he murmured a small, “Crowley?”

His love and friend slowly pushed herself off him, her long hair curtaining both their faces. A few boards had landed on their lower bodies, but the two of them were easily able to kick and throw them away. Crowley was still terribly bruised, but it didn’t seem that she suffered many or terrible additional injuries.

They raised themselves, sitting on their knees. “You’re alright?” Azra asked.

“Yes,” Crowley said. They gazed into each other’s eyes and Crowley put her hand on his cheek. “Poet-”

But the spell was broken as they realized a crowd was forming around the wreckage. Crowley removed her hand to cover herself and Azra took off his coat, helping Crowley into it and buttoning it for her, though it only went to her mid-thigh. The pair stood up hand-in-hand, preparing to navigate past the crowd to look for the horses, when the sound of shuffling boards came behind them.

Turning, they saw Sheriff Hastur emerge from the rubble, dazed but mostly unhurt. Crowley clenched her teeth, a fire lighting in her eyes to match her hair. She let go of Azra’s hand and picked up the Thundergun, stomping over to where her former lover sat and aiming at his head.

Before she could fire, Azra rushed over and gripped her arm to stop her. Partly because he didn’t think blowing the Sheriff away in front of a crowd of citizens was the best idea, mostly to help her save face in case the Thundergun turned out not to carry multiple rounds.

The poet looked directly into Hastur’s eyes and said in a voice only the three of them could hear, “We’re leaving. You’re not going to follow us or look for us in the future. You’ll have more to lose than your house if you try.”

Hastur glared at them with the eyes of a much more sober man. “She murdered Ligur.”

“You two tried to murder me,” Azra said in a cold, reasonable voice that reminded him too much of his cousins. “If my inferences are correct, you and the Deputy committed that crime long before I came to Soho. I’d say Crowley was completely justified, and I’m sure _they-_ ” Azra nodded to the crowd, who were all whispering and pointing at Crowley’s injured, exposed legs, “-would agree.”

Hastur clenched his jaw but said nothing. “Dear, please give me the gun,” Azra said to Crowley. She complied, but only because of two new arrivals in the crowd. 

Bentley burst through the circle, neighing in joy at the sight of his master, tailed by Scooter. Crowley wasted no time running to her horse and mounting his back. Azra followed her, leaving Hastur to sit alone in the wreckage. He mounted Scooter and the four of them rode into the little-past-sunset, the sky melting from lavender to violet to deep blue.

Later they would arrive in Tadfield, and maybe they would rely on Mr. and Mrs. Pulsifer for support until Azra managed to get his check from Soho Publishing. Maybe he’d use that money to build Crowley a new saloon, one that they could manage and live in together, and they’d call it The Ritz. Maybe they’d get married and finally find out what each other’s middle initials stood for.

For now they didn’t think about any of that. For now they were content to relish in their sense of freedom, Crowley riding Bentley so fast she was almost out of sight, then circling back to meet with Azra and Scooter. The poet looked at the way the gleam in her golden eyes matched that of her steed’s, at how utterly _alive_ she looked in that moment, and knew there would be no one else for him. She was his love, and for some inexplicable reason, he was hers. No matter what they did after arriving in Tadfield, they’d be content just to be with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done! I hope you all enjoyed reading this fic as much as I loved writing it. Thank you to those who left kudos, they bring me great joy! I've got a couple silly one-shot ideas rolling around my head (one for Good Omens, one for Detroit: Become Human, the latter of which I've already started), so one or both of those should be posted in the near-ish future.  
> 'Till next time, happy reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Quail patty was a legitimate menu item you could get at saloons. It seemed like the fanciest cheap thing I found, so I stuck it in here. New chapters soon!


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